


Watsons Are Writers

by Random_Nexus



Series: Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2017 [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Fluff, Bisexuality, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Homosexuality, Kid Fic, M/M, Prompt Fic, SO MUCH FLUFF, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 22:24:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11427438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_Nexus/pseuds/Random_Nexus
Summary: It's John's birthday and Rosie is making something special. Sherlock helps.Written For The Prompt: "The prompt for July 6 is: Poetic License. A character writes poetry (doesn't have to be good poetry).  For those of you differentiating between new and old prompts, this is a new prompt."  -Watson's WoesJuly Writing PromptsWarnings:S4 Spoilers, Kid!fic, Fluff, Manly smooches, Did I mention fluff?  Take your insulin.





	Watsons Are Writers

**Author's Note:**

> The idea asploded into my brain this morning and I just went with it. May I also point out that it's fairly short, too! \o/

>   
>  You make my breakfast and a lunch bag, too.  
>  Clean the kitchen and the stinky loo.  
>  Do all the things any Mum could do.
> 
> But you fix my owies, scold when I’m bad.  
>  Teach me first aid, hug me when I’m sad.  
>  Read me bedtime stories, like any Dad.
> 
> Still your not any Dad, you taught me to sew.  
>  You’ve taught me to skate, and to throw.  
>  I’m proud you’re my Dad, and now you know.
> 
> Happy Birthday, Daddy,  
>  Love Rosie.  
> 

  
“Watson, you’ve misspelled ‘your’; it should be y.o.u. apostrophe r. e,” Sherlock said distractedly as he set the cardboard-covered notebook and the glittery neon green pencil aside, about to reapply his attention to the view through his microscope.

Rosie rolled her eyes and sighed impatiently. “Okay, but is it good enough?” She fidgeted her fingers together rolling and hooking them in one another as she stood next to Sherlock at the kitchen table.

“Your rhymes are simple, but it’s well-constructed, all the same.” Sherlock took up and handed Rosie back the notebook and pencil, nodding approvingly.

“But…” she trailed off, her eyes—so very much the same blue as her father’s—full of concern and her fair brows pulled together. “Do you think he’ll like it?”

Belatedly realising he hadn’t been paying full attention to what she really wanted from him, Sherlock turned completely away from his microscope and caught both of her wriggling hands in only one of his much larger hands. Looking her squarely in the face, he said confidently, “Watson, you’ve evidently inherited your father’s propensity for writing.” When she frowned a little at him, not wholly confused, but neither wholly understanding, he added gently, “I think he’ll love it.”

Her smile was, despite the cliché of it, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. Sherlock smiled in response and was prepared when she threw herself at him for a vigorous ‘Watson’ style hug: warm and snug with a hum of happiness when it was returned.

~~~

When John got home from the clinic, happy to have had only half a day filling in for one of the other doctors who’d had to take her car into the shop, he wasn’t really surprised by the hand-painted ‘Happy Birthday, Daddy’ banner over the entryway into the kitchen. He _was_ surprised to find the kitchen table entirely cleared of all scientific equipment and covered with a brightly coloured table cloth, but the cake and eight year old girl in a paint-spattered smock and a huge smile wasn’t as much of a surprise—utterly delightful and welcome, but not a surprise. Sherlock in a paint-smeared apron was mildly surprising, as was the almost-as-huge smile on the face above said apron, which was one of Sherlock’s genuine, lopsided smiles that also lit up his eyes.

“Surprise!” Rosie sang out as soon as he was stopped in the open doorway of the sitting room, then she grabbed Sherlock’s nearest hand and tugged it as she shouted, “Happy birthday, Daddy!”

At the same time, apparently cued by the tug of Rosie’s hand, Sherlock said, “Happy birthday, John!”

His own face stretching into a grin, John kicked off his shoes and pretty much tossed everything else onto his chair before going forward, meeting Rosie as she dashed to him and swinging her up into a big hug with a happy growling hum. “Thank you, luv,” he then said into her blonde hair before kissing the side of her head with a big ‘mwah’ sound. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he let her legs sway back and forth as he walked slowly toward the kitchen, her toes several inches off the ground and Rosie giggling into his jaw, her hands locked behind his neck. Letting her slide down to stand on her own just inside the kitchen, he looked up at Sherlock and added, “Thank you, too, Sherlock.”

“It was all Rosie’s idea,” Sherlock told him almost solemnly, though his lips were still curved into a lesser version of a smile and his eyes bright.

“Of course it was,” John agreed, leaning up as Sherlock bent his head, their lips meeting in the middle. “Obviously you helped, though.”

“Papa helped very much,” Rosie declared, claiming one of John’s hands and holding on as she tugged him to the table and took up an envelope from next to the small stack of plates, handing it to John. “I made you a card, Daddy.”

“Oooh,” John breathed in anticipation and delight. He opened the envelope and pulled out a card with a coloured-in picture of a pudgy dragon with ridiculously tiny wings, a bunch of balloons tied to its middle apparently keeping it aloft. A banner much like the one hanging nearby fluttered from the dragon’s claws. “This is excellent, Rosie. You made the banner to match?”

Rosie nodded vigorously. “Papa printed out the art I found on a colouring book site so I could colour it pretty for your card. Look inside, Daddy! Look!” She was bouncing on her toes as she hurried him breathlessly.

“Right, right,” John placated, opening the card. “Oh, let’s see… a poem?” John scanned it quickly—his typing might never be anything approaching ‘fast’, but there was nothing wrong with his reading skills—and, after a soft gasp, he pressed his lips tight and looked down at his daughter with rapidly dampening eyes. “Rosie, this is… the best poem I’ve ever read,” he managed, voice roughening enough that he had to stop and clear his throat halfway through. “This is going right on the mantel. Thank you, sweetheart.”

Rosie’s face couldn’t have withstood a wider smile and she thumped into her father in her enthusiasm to hug him again. “You’re welcome,” she mumbled into his chest.

“Told you he’d love it, Watson,” Sherlock reminded her with fond smugness, reaching over to rest one large hand atop her head.

“Come here, you,” rumbled John, pulling Sherlock into the hug, slightly squashing Rosie between them. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, and then his lips, and then drew him close again with a hum of contentment. “I am the luckiest man in the world.”

“Then I’m the second luckiest,” Sherlock whispered, adding a kiss of his own to John’s head.

John made an indeterminate sound that he would definitely deny later was an escaped happy sob.

“Group hug!” cried Rosie on a giggle, though it was mostly muffled between her Daddy’s chest and her Papa’s ribs.

“Oh! Look at you!” came a high-pitched female voice from the still-open doorway to the flat. Mrs. Hudson, even as she was still speaking, hurriedly fetched out her camera phone and snapped several quick photos. “I was just coming up to see if the birthday boy had arrived.”

John and Sherlock both groaned long-sufferingly and Rosie laughed, squirming away from her two fathers and going to fetch Mrs. Hudson over to the kitchen. “Daddy really liked the card,” she related on the way, expression bright with happiness.

“Well of course he did,” Mrs. Hudson replied, smoothing her fingers through Rosie’s short, silky hair. “It’s lovely.” She looked up at John, just then coming away from a more thorough kiss with Sherlock, and she winked as she concluded, “Watsons are writers, it’s obviously in the blood.”

“Obviously,” agreed Sherlock imperiously. “Who wants cake?”

Unsurprisingly, no one even thought of refusing a slice of cake.


End file.
